Dreams of the Red Phoenix (26 page)

T
he Reverend Caleb Carson felt the stirring of the trees on
all sides and listened as the wind picked up. He heard the
beginnings of rain before it arrived. Leaves began to fall, and
twigs whipped past his cot on the cliffside. He would have liked
to reach out and catch some but could not move his arms fast
enough. He simply shut his eyes and felt himself becoming a part
of the maelstrom. Flimsy and insubstantial, he welcomed the
sensation of being sucked into it.

But then Cook was at his side. As always, dear Cook. And his
son, Charles's friend, whose name Caleb now remembered: Han.
He recognized in their voices the timbre of concern and perhaps
something like love. They had been unerringly kind. The sudden
drops of rain struck Caleb like small punishments, punches from
God down the length of his prostrate body, bestowed upon him
for his foolishness.

Days before, word had come that his able and forceful wife
had returned to the mission after being briefly detained by the
Japanese. Apparently she continued to perform her good works
at the small medical clinic now set up in their home. Her will
was strong, Caleb thought, while his had always been weak. Ever
since his accident, he had asked himself how and why he had got
ten into this wretched position. The only answer he could muster
was that he was pitifully human.

But there was no time for such sad reflections now, with the
rain falling fast. The father and son leaned over him and raised
the cot to return Caleb to the cave, leaving the rain to pelt the
rocky ground. Their backs—one young and narrow, the other
crooked and wide—grew wet in a matter of moments. Both so
healthy, it might even have felt good to them after the dryness
and heat. But to Caleb, the rain came like another irrefutable
curse.

They lifted his cot and carried him over the rough earth. He
heard their shoes slosh in sudden puddles and worried that they
didn't have proper footwear. He would have liked to give them
his fine leather boots, but those had been lost to the mudslide
many weeks before. Since then, he had had no need for them,
but he hoped he might need them eventually. He had made it
through the summer and seemed to be improving, or at least
holding on. He could lift his head now. And as he did, he saw
great torrents fall outside the mouth of the cave.

Han began to laugh at the rain, which made Caleb smile, too.
It rolled over the cave door like a waterfall, and they were inside
it. Yes, Caleb thought, that had always been a fine sight. He and
his older brothers would hike miles up the trails near their home,
and after a final steep bend in the path, they would come upon
their favorite hidden gem: a waterfall that seemed to him, even
at a young age, ancient and profound. In August, when other
streams were dried up, white water churned over the rocks at this
falls, fed by snow melting deep in the bowl beneath Mt. Wash
ington.

The boys would throw off their clothes and scramble across
the slippery rocks and dare one another with its icy touch. They
sensed the danger and knew never to mention it to their mother,
who would have forbidden them if she had known. A fall from
that height at that distance from home would never permit res
cue. If one of them fell, each brother would blame himself for
the rest of his life, and so all four would be sacrificed to the failed
expedition. They owed it to one another to never let that happen.

Caleb, being the youngest, was always the last to make the
ledge. For years, his legs were not quite long enough to step over.
While his brothers waited, he had to jump the final expanse
across to the other side. They stood trembling inside the water
fall, their shivering backs pressed against the dry rock, while Ca
leb remained on the outside looking in at their wild and joyous
faces. The frothing water poured down like a veil between them
as they waited for him to take the last leap, which their shouts
encouraged him to do. He would never forget the instant when
he hung between rock and rock and waited for the firm grip of
his brother's hand as it reached out through the falling water to
bring him across to safety.

Caleb felt the tears roll down his cheeks before he realized
he had shed them. Such was his new state of being: more fluid
than solid. He reached a trembling hand up and swiped away
the wetness. Outside, the rain carried the sky downward with it.
The peak of the mountain over his head, Caleb could imagine,
becoming one with the wet sky.

The Chinese youth beside him danced a boyish dance, and
Caleb wished he could join him. Caleb recalled Charles perform
ing a similar rain dance in fresh puddles when he was younger.
Without words, Han was reminding Caleb that the rain was not
a curse against him but merely the changing of the seasons, proof
that life carried on, and they with it. He had never believed he
would make it this long with his broken back, but he had, and
the boy's excitement gave him hope that he might just make it
through to the next season, and even the next. He did not want
to die. He wanted to rise up and rejoin the living. He wanted to
dance with his boy again.

Han hovered over his bed as Cook massaged the blood back
into Caleb's feet. He thought he might even walk today. He
might sit up, as he had several times, and actually walk.

“Reverend,” Han said, “I have news from the mission.”

Caleb smiled at the young man. “You look well, Han.”

“Thank you, Reverend. You look better, too.”

“You are happy?” Caleb asked.

“Yes, very happy. Shall I tell you about your family?”

Caleb looked out at the rain and wondered if he could bear
to hear it. Any news of his family both fueled his recovery and
pained him. He nodded carefully, his neck finally repaired
enough to allow him to do so. He longed to show Shirley his
progress.

“An order has come from the American legation in Peking.
They are all leaving, sir.”

“What's that?” Caleb asked, though he had heard the boy.

“Your family and the others will start their journey back to
America today,” Han shouted to be heard above the sound of the
rain. “They will travel by train across the north to Peking, then
down to Shanghai, where they will leave on a Swedish ship, the
Gripsholm
. They are fortunate to have booked passage. Some for
eigners are not so lucky.”

The rain continued, loud and insistent and pure. Caleb wished
he could listen to it and keep daydreaming. He had imagined a
reunion at the mission, his family amazed by the miracle of his
return. But now his family was leaving China for good without
him. Han had brought word.

“Ah,” Caleb finally said.

“You are not surprised by this news, are you?” Han asked.
“This is what you wanted, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is. Of course.”

“The Japanese front continues to expand, but we are ready.
Our leaders say the whole country must fight against them to
gether.”

“That's a good plan.”

But Han did not appear convinced by Caleb's reply and re
peated, “Your family, Reverend, must leave quickly to escape. No
one will be spared. You understand?”

“So it must be.”

But in his heart, Caleb longed for more time. For the rains to
have held off longer. For his legs to have regained more strength.
For the searing pain in his back to not cripple every part of him,
even his mind. He understood it would be impossible for him to
join them after they had left the mission. He would never make it
to Shanghai to board the same ship. Later though, he would trav
el alone across dangerous territory and eventually make his own
passage to America. But he could not possibly make that journey
by himself, when still so fragile and the conditions so harrowing.
His mind went white with confusion and doubt as he realized he
would never get home.

“Thank you for telling me,” he made himself say. “I pray they
make it out without incident. With all my heart, I pray for that.”

Caleb felt tears leave his eyes again and roll down his cheeks.
He could not bear his own selfishness. That any part of him
wished they would stay for his sake was wrong, and he knew it.
He cried at his feebleness of spirit. He was a flawed man who had
given up caring that he opened like a faucet, the tears pouring
from him as naturally as the rain outside. He could not bear his
own company any longer.

He began a prayer in his mind that his beloved wife and son
be escorted away from him and into a new life. They must leave
this hard and disastrous land and return to America, where ev
erything was easier. They deserved to be free of China and of
his tired, broken bones. How could he have imagined burdening
them with his wounded self? If they were to make it out alive,
they did not need to be toting along a cripple who would only
impede their progress. They needed to go on without him. That
was only right.

“It is good,” he said more firmly.

The boy crouched closer and nodded. “Yes, very good.”

Then Han stood and bowed and left Caleb's side.

C
aptain Hsu had brought only one mule, not an ancient one
but not a sprightly one, either. He climbed on first, then of
fered a hand up to Shirley. She pulled herself onto the animal's
back, more awkwardly than she had hoped, her skirt and linen
riding coat tangling in her legs before she finally settled into po
sition.

“You will fall sitting that way,” he said.

“This is how we do it at Vassar. We call it sidesaddle.”

“Traditional Chinese ladies sit that way, too. You need trou
sers instead. How can a woman carry a pistol in her belt or hop
onto a horse at a moment's notice in such a frilly outfit?”

“My outfit isn't frilly,” she said and smoothed her skirt. “And
besides, I hope to never do such things.”

“In China, everyone should have these skills.”

He kicked the mule with his heels, and Shirley grabbed his
belt as they lurched forward. In trousers, she could have dug into
the animal's sides with her legs to stabilize herself. And she had
to admit, he was right that learning to shoot a rifle or hop on
horseback or even do occasional manual labor would be good for
any woman's character—and perhaps hers in particular.

They headed out of town on rocky paths through the fields
to the east. A cool breeze, bearing the first hint of autumn, came
steadily from across the plains. She wrapped her riding coat
around her and wondered if the damp air meant the possibility
of rain, though no clouds obscured the moon as it rose over the
distant mountains receding behind them to the west. The mule
seemed to know the way over the terrain, the rhythm of its steps
steady even in the dark. Shirley and Captain Hsu did not speak.
The sky overhead was blacker than any she had ever seen before,
and more filled with stars. Shirley shivered and couldn't help
wrapping her arms more tightly around him as they pressed on.

After some time, they reached a butte surrounded by a tangle
of rock outcroppings. The mule wove up the narrow trail until
they came upon a hidden enclave of tents that, to Shirley's sur
prise, reminded her of the summer camp on Lake Erie she had
attended as a girl. Several large, open-sided structures defined
the perimeter, with smaller makeshift canvas ones dotted all
around. Captain Hsu stopped the mule and called out. A young
soldier trotted over and offered a quick bow, but when he lifted
his lantern and noticed her seated behind the captain, the boy let
out a giggle.

“Help Nurse Carson,” Hsu instructed him. Then, in English,
he said to Shirley, “These country boys have never seen a white
person before, and certainly not a lady.”

Shirley let the young soldier take her hand and did her best to
slip down gracefully. Captain Hsu headed directly into the camp,
and she had to hurry to keep up. They entered an area where
some injured soldiers had been placed in rows, their feet facing a
low-burning bonfire. A few were wrapped in thin blankets, but
many lay directly on the rocky ground.

Shirley hurried to join Captain Hsu, who stood now with a
group of officers. They hardly acknowledged her but seemed
concerned with some important business. When Captain Hsu
finally introduced her to the men, she bowed low and listened
attentively for their names, some of which struck her as familiar.
Several were among the Red leaders who had brought men, and
even some women, all the way across the vast country in a mass
military exodus. She had no doubt that her husband, and those
who had joined their cause along the way in the Long March,
admired these thin and ragged-looking men before her and con
sidered them brilliant strategists and brave heroes.

Captain Hsu motioned her to follow, and they wove through an
outdoor clinic area where several more injured lay on cots. While
their condition appeared stable, and not requiring urgent care, no
one was attending to them. A good many of the soldiers seemed
in need of proper clothing. Some wore no shoes, and to Shirley,
their cut and swollen feet were the saddest sight of all. Captain Hsu
stopped just outside a tent and nodded for her to enter.

“What's this about?” she asked. “Where are you sending me?”

“He wishes to see you.”

“Who?”

“Our leader.”

“I see,” she said and looked back at the rows of injured sol
diers. “I'm honored to meet him but would much prefer to help
as a nurse. Couldn't I do that instead?”

“No. You will see him now.”

“But won't you come with me?” she asked. “I would feel more
comfortable if you did.”

Shirley searched for something in Captain Hsu's far-off ex
pression. Was she right to think that he, too, considered her his
charge and wanted to keep watch over her? To her surprise in
that moment, his hand reached out and awkwardly brushed a
stray curl off her forehead. He had never done anything so for
ward before, nor so gentle and kind.

“You will be all right,” he said. “Everyone knows that you are
the brave Nurse Carson.”

A high, thin laugh escaped her lips. “Everyone except you. To
you, I will always be a frivolous American woman.”

His even gaze met hers, their eyes perfectly aligned, and she
thought she saw a glimmer of warmth she had not seen before. “I
do not praise you, if that is what you mean. But you have worked
hard.”

Shirley let the glow of his words wash over her. All her life,
men had complimented her on her appearance or her cleverness,
but she never valued their praise half as much as Captain Hsu's
stingy assessment now.

“All right, Captain, I'll do as you say.”

“Good,” he said and held open the flap of the tent for her to
enter.

In the dimness, Shirley did not notice the soldiers at attention
just inside the door until one gestured for her to continue deeper
into the shadowy room. She stepped around books stacked high
on the threadbare Chinese carpet. On a rickety table lay maps
and more piles of books. A young soldier poured tea from an
earthenware pot. Shirley thought she was alone with the sol
diers and wondered if she would have to wait long for Captain
Hsu's leader. But as her eyes adjusted, she saw a reclining figure
stretched out on a military cot tucked against the sloping back
wall of the tent. A crackling red burst of light came as the reclin
ing person lit a pipe.

“Please sit, Mrs. Carson. Thank you for coming to this remote
camp.”

She bowed but could not tell if he was even turned in her di
rection. His English was good, she noticed, though mostly she felt
distracted by his peculiarly high voice. It had the reedy timbre of
a young woman's. She looked about for a chair, but, not finding
one, decided to kneel on the thin carpet instead. She spread her
skirt over her legs and hoped that seemed respectful.

“What can you tell me about the noninterventionist move
ment in America?” he asked. “Do they hold much sway?” His
pipe glowed again.

Shirley cleared her throat. “I know very little about politics,
sir. My husband was more informed and involved than I am.”

“We have reports that students are starting to rally on cam
puses, calling themselves America First.”

“I'm afraid I never bothered with the news,” she said. For a
long moment, he did not reply, and she waited for him to ask
something else, but when he didn't and went back to puffing
on his pipe, she ventured to continue. “I believe, though, that if
Americans had any idea what was going on here, they'd want to
put a stop to the Japanese atrocities immediately.”

He sat up, his high forehead catching the lamplight. She rec
ognized his distinct profile from the papers. “You think so?” he
asked.

“Absolutely. We have never cottoned to dictators. We can't
abide countries marching in and oppressing their neighbors.”

Still in shadow, the leader of the Reds reached for his cup and
slurped from it. Then he let out a delicate belch.

His high voice cut through her thoughts again. “I understand
that you are a nurse.”

Shirley pulled back her shoulders and prepared for the real
reason for her visit. “I have been honored to care for the people of
my province and the good men who serve in the Red Army. They
are fine boys, not educated, perhaps a bit simple,” she said, and
immediately regretted it, “but brave. Very brave. I'm sure you are
exceedingly proud.”

She could hear him bite down on his pipe stem and belch soft
ly again.

“Now that I have seen the conditions closer to the front, I am
prepared to help here as well, if it is needed,” she said. “I hate to
see patients go uncared for.”

He stood. Shirley blinked in the dim light but felt quite cer
tain that she was looking at his pudgy bare feet on the old rug.
His pant legs were frayed, and he wore no uniform, just dark
pants and shirt, like a shopkeeper in a poor provincial town.

“Help if you are asked to,” he said, “but I do not think you
are needed here.” Then he bowed. “Thank you for coming, and
good evening, Mrs. Carson.”

She rose to her feet, too, and realized she was supposed to bow
now, but she couldn't help feeling that nothing of significance
had been said between them. “Is there anything else I can offer
you or your men?”

“It is an embarrassing problem,” he began as he stepped out
of the shadows and set his pipe and cup on the table, “but I seem
to have developed indigestion. No one must know that I would
consider a Western remedy for my discomfort, but any sugges
tion you make is appreciated. We will keep it just between us.”

This couldn't be the reason he had called her here, she thought.

“You have advice for me, Mrs. Carson?” he asked again.

“I'm sorry you're uncomfortable, sir. I don't suppose you can
get your hands on antacid tablets?” she asked. “Plain baking soda
would do. Sodium bicarbonate. Do you know it?”

He shook his head and poked out his bottom lip. “Not much
is available here.”

“Then the best solution is the old Chinese one. Ginger, finely
chopped and taken in a cup of tea.”

He clapped his hands. “Excellent. That remedy does me little
good, but at least there is nothing better.”

Shirley refrained from contradicting him. “But there must be
something else I can help you with?”

He lifted a book from the table and began to leaf through it.
“No, I don't think so. I assume you are going back to America
soon?” he asked.

Shirley paused before answering. She had promised her son
earlier in the evening that she would depart with him and the
others when they left the mission for Shanghai. That plan re
mained her intention, but seeing the injured boys at this Red
Army camp, not to mention having in mind those who might
still arrive at her own clinic, made her waver yet again in her
decision.

“That is my plan,” she said. “But, to be honest, I've come to
find the work deeply rewarding. I do still wonder if I can be of
assistance here in North China, perhaps to continue my success at
the clinic?” Her voice rose into a question, the pleading, unsure
tone hard to mask. She wanted him to decide for her, this lead
er of the Reds so accustomed to issuing orders. But his nose re
mained buried in a book, and she wasn't sure he had even heard
her.

“No,” he suddenly said and slammed the book closed. “Abso
lutely not. You must go back to America right away.”